“I can’t.” The words dragged from her, everything she thought right forcing them out. “I can’t. My lord, I’m so sorry.”
Cameron stilled, mouth on her neck, hand on her bare back.
“My husband is a good man,” she whispered. “A very good man. He doesn’t deserve this.”
Damn it, something inside Cameron cried out. Damn it all to hell.
His entire body fought him as he lifted his hands away. Cameron knew women, knew when their bodies craved a man’s touch. Mrs. Douglas wanted what Cameron offered, that was apparent, despite the anguish swimming in her gray eyes. Cam smelled her readiness faintly behind the roses and knew that if he took her, he’d find her slick and open for him.
Her husband obviously hadn’t been satisfying her needs. Whether he wouldn’t or couldn’t didn’t matter; he wasn’t, or this lady would not be so ready to seek Cameron.
And yet, Mrs. Douglas was saying no for this husband’s sake. It took a rare courage to make such a decision, strength that most of Cam’s women didn’t have. Those women wanted satiation and weren’t much bothered by who they hurt to get it.
Cameron tugged Mrs. Douglas’s corset back together and laced it closed and then fastened her bodice. He turned her to face him again and traced her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“Go tell your good man how lucky he is, Mrs. Douglas.”
“I am truly sorry, my lord.”
Good lord, Cameron had tried to seduce her, and she was apologizing to him. Cameron had wanted pleasure, pure and simple, the mind-blanking fire of coupling. Nothing more. He’d assumed she sought that as well. Now she looked worried that she’d caused him inconvenience.
Cameron leaned and pressed another kiss to her parted lips, lingering until the last possible moment. “Go on, now.”
Mrs. Douglas nodded, smiling her gratitude. Gratitude, God help him.
Cameron walked her to the door and opened it, kissed her damp lips once more, and guided her out. When Mrs. Douglas turned around to say something, he shook his head and shut the door, turning the key in the lock.
He pressed his forehead to the door’s cool panels, listening to her patter away down the empty hall. “Good night, lass,” he whispered.
Cameron spent the rest of the night on his bed, fully dressed, downing glass after glass of whiskey. He wasted much time trying not to fantasize about pretty young Mrs. Douglas and where the seduction would have gone. He failed utterly.
The fantasies wrapped him in a glow of warmth well into the next day as Cameron watched Mrs. Douglas. Her husband was tall and bony, awkward with her, though he lingered near her as though he needed to be reassured by her constant presence. Mrs. Douglas was kind to him, Cameron noticed. She didn’t treat him with disdain. He also noticed the Mrs. Douglas studiously avoided any eye contact with Cameron.
What a wild affair Cameron could have with her—every night something new. He’d buy jewels to drape her naked body and scented oils to slide onto her skin. He’d be discreet, something Cameron rarely bothered with. He’d convince Mrs. Douglas that her husband would never be hurt by anything they did. They’d meet in secret, perhaps alone in Cameron’s carriage, while they explored and tasted and thoroughly learned each other. Their liaison would be glorious, stuff to think on for years to come.
The pleasant fantasy came crashing down the next night when Cameron stood on the terrace outside the ballroom, drinking whiskey with his brother Mac. One of Cameron’s former paramours, Felicia Hardcastle, of lovely body but foul temper, stormed out to the terrace and halted in front of Cameron. “You gave her my necklace!”
Necklace? What necklace? People inside the ballroom stared, and Mac watched in mixed astonishment and amusement.
“What the devil are you talking about?” Cameron demanded.
Felicia pointed a stiff finger through the terrace door to Mrs. Jennings, another former mistress. The lady in question stood in the middle of the ballroom in a low-necked evening dress that showed off the emeralds encircling her neck. Emeralds Cameron had purchased for Felicia, which Felicia had carelessly left in his chamber at the beginning of the week. Cameron had locked them into the drawer of his bedside table, planning to have his valet, Angelo, retrieve them and return them to Felicia’s maid.
Now the emeralds hung around the neck of Mrs. Jennings, who turned to greet Ainsley Douglas and take her hand with a fond squeeze. Mrs. Douglas, the lady Cameron had found hovering near his bedside table last night.
Bloody hell.
Felicia swept back inside to screech accusations at Mrs. Jennings and Ainsley. Cameron watched Ainsley’s pretty mouth drop open and her gaze move across the room to lock on Cameron’s.
Her expression spoke of confusion, shock, betrayal. Genuine? Or more trickery?
It didn’t matter. Mrs. Douglas had lied to him, used him, duped him with her tearful reluctance to betray her husband—all to steal a stupid necklace for some ridiculous feminine intrigue. And Cameron, fool that he was, had fallen for the little deception.
He entered the ballroom and moved through the crowd, striving to ignore Felicia, Mrs. Jennings, and the gawping crowd. Ainsley Douglas thrust herself into Cameron’s path, and he nearly ran over her.
Her gray eyes pleaded with him to understand, forgive. The smell of the roses on her bosom came to him, and the sweet scent of herself, and Cameron realized he still wanted her.
He made himself look down at her in stony indifference, hardening his heart to the tears beading on her lashes. He turned away and continued through the crowd until he reached the ballroom door, then left the house and made his way to the stables.